Tracey Mayers  Education Recon 2007 LA
by Farmageddon
Summary: Tracey Mayers grew up a tunnel rat. The war is over and she is training to be a teacher. General Connor has a mission for her: Return to 2007 and observe education systems in that time, keep a journal. It will count towards her final assessment.
1. Chapter 1

**Hi. I'm going to try something completely different. I have never attempted writing in the first person before. Tell me what you think.**

* * *

My name is Tracey Mayers . I never knew the real name my mother intended for me . I was told she was Resistance and she died giving birth to me at Western Medical . This may have been just another story older Rats tell the young ones to get them off to sleep . I'd like to believe it was true.

My earliest memory comes from when I was three years old. I placed a .223 Remmington tracer round into a lit stove . I'd seen older Rats put rounds into fires and run . The fire and explosions drew Metal to the heat source and by the time Metal showed up Rats would be long gone, in the opposite direction. I wanted to see the bright orange or green flash and I thought everyone would be overjoyed I'd learned a new skill. Instead the cooking tin hit the tunnel ceiling showering black oily gravy over older Rats .This was followed by much yelling, and slapping of my backside .

My Rat-name was a kind of a warning label that stuck. It is actually Tracer, but I later replaced the 'r' with a y. Mayers was the name printed in white lettering on the blue chemical tubs that came bobbing up to the surface in section 4.3 of the Eastern tunnels. Mayers sounded right for a surname, so at six years old I took it , reasoning a name couldn't belong to anyone to steal it from. Not that any of us cared who things belonged to, only that they wouldn't come after us if we thieved from them.

I grew up like all the other Rats, spending my first ten years underground learning thieving, trading , knowing the places to hide from hostile Metal and Militia. When I was eleven I took my turn in looking after younger Rats. It was then I began running provisions and munitions up to the front line Resistance soldiers in exchange for their protection and our share of MRE's. Rats were growing in numbers and it was well rewarded work.

I was captured at Serrano, incarcerated and finally liberated by Resistance from Century Workcamp. I survived because of my slight build and agility . My first role was cleaning and primary maintenance of the machinery under the incineration plant. Later, I was taken to Section 11 for 'Reassignment'. Like all of us , I grew up witnessing things I now know a child should not.

I was fourteen when The War ended . After Liberation I was transported. I was given a bed in The Base dorm and attended the first class of the first school that opened after The War . For months I could not settle in class, but gradually I began to learn to sit down for longer periods of time and began to read and write. In my second year I took to maths and engineering with a passion. Century-Metal had taught me the principles of mechanical engineering . Metal were harsh teachers, you simply learned things or they killed you , those were their rules. Unsurprisingly I excelled in these subjects in my second year of Base class.

At the age of seventeen I held the rank of sergeant and I became a teaching assistant in the school. It was then I began to study everything I could from records of Pre JD education . Once you know how to learn in one area , learning other things becomes easier. I could not believe the world that had passed. It came to me in my dreams, and in my dreams I heard the voices and saw the faces of the children in the videos I had watched .

My area of interest did not go unnoticed. The General approached me during my second term. He had a mission for me. I was to get to see that world.

* * *

August 1st 2007 6.30am

This morning I wake to find myself naked in a large bed and decide it is so warm and comfortable I never want to get out . These sheets are soft and I could lie in them all day. I pull the covers over my head and curl into a fetal position so can I doze in the darkness listening to the beat of my organic heart. Maybe this is what it was like waiting to be born.

Eventually I pull the covers back and open my eyes again . Though my open window I can hear downtown LA traffic on the move . It sounds like the constant roar of sea when it channeled up through the Western tunnels .

Sunlight is poring in through the gap in the curtains . They are creamy white with intense orange and pink floral patterns. The sky is blue. I have not yet decided if I prefer this blue to metallic gray. At the moment it feels unnatural the sky should be this color, or indeed that any color should be so vivid. I had been warned the air in 2007 LA is higher in oxygen than levels I am accustomed to, so perhaps this is making me feel lightheaded and my senses are heightened. Maybe everything isn't really this bright and it will settle down in a day or so.

There is the rich smell of food being prepared downstairs. It is meat-based but I can not recognize the animal being cooked. . Hunger is making my top lip twitch. This is a nervous tic I am going to have to work on, along with using the correct cutlery and not holding onto my plate during meal times .

I have the strong urge to pee and reluctantly get out of bed and dress in a long pink cotton gown . It has a cotton belt to fasten around it.

The carpeted floor absorbs my footfall. Again there are bright patterns on the walls and floor . I realize would be relatively easy to move undetected across a surface like this. This concerns me. For security purposes I may pull up the carpet outside my room later.

The toilet uses a vast amount of water. It is so clean you could drink from it. I flush twice and listen as the vortex swirls down the pan heading for the tunnel system where I grew up. Each flush is at least a days H ration. When I touch the toilet handle I feel 'rich'.

Vincent has prepared breakfast for me. There is now a green padded linoleum under my bare feet.

I slip into role "good morning 'dad'."

"Good morning Tracey" Vincent seamlessly picks up his role. He is stirring a pan of orange colored beans and heating slices of bread in a machine designed for this purpose. Burnt bread is called toast. The smell of it makes my top lip twitch again.

We sit down at the breakfast table and Vincent begins reading the LA Times . We discuss the contents of the newspaper as we eat. This is normal practice at the breakfast table. Apparently Coco Cola, a soft drinks manufacturer in the USA, has been collaborating with Colombian terrorists in order to ensure the safe distribution of their product in their country. We agree this is an excellent distributive strategy. Colombia produced outstanding Resistance operatives . Something puzzles us: It seems strange it should be 'broadcast' like this given the underlying security issues of such an operation. Surely those trying to disrupt these networks will be alerted?

Eating breakfast is not as easy as it looks. Baked beans are extremely hard to spear on the end of a narrow fork. I only learn later, fortunately towards the end of my school visit , I am currently legume intolerant . I will not be eating beans of any variety again for a long time. They taste delicious , but are not worth the consequences. I have expelled about a cubic meter of methane! Most of my diet will consist of cereal , babyfood and protein mix, and I will be gradually weened off it as my digestive system adapts to tolerate the rich variety of foods .

'Toast' is excellent, and becomes soggy in baked bean sauce.

We have an appointment with Principal Steinbeck at Campo de Cahuenga High School at 10.30. It is currently 'summer Break' and there are no students attending the high school.

Vincent has hacked out the relevant educational and medical systems we have flawless identities. No one was terminated in the process, which he announces enthusiastically, achieves the first part of his mission parameters. Vincent goes on to explain termination during identity fabrication can be messy and you are never sure its not going " come back and bite you on the ass at a later date". I have been bitten on my ass and upper leg by both mutated rodents and reptiles . I grasp the meaning of this phrase immediately, and politely steer the conversation away from termination protocal. I will allow him to discuss T-things later, because he has an obvious need to share , and I am interested in T-stuff like this as long as it doesn't get too detailed and obsessive.

I distract him and go over our cover stories .

"Mother died when I was born . Vincent is a single parent, my single parent. He is a computer programmer and his job requires him to move frequently. I am in remission from a long illness. I have missed large portions of my education. Vincent has a taken a long contract in LA so I can settle for a year."

None of this is untrue, except in this time , the reasons for my Leukemia and my complete remission from it are unique, to say the least. We are not going to mention those to Principal Steinbeck.

I will write up my school visit later tonight, if I can stay out of that bed .


	2. Chapter 2

This morning I wake up perfectly calm and functional, however , after breakfast Vincent and I have a row . I have never gotten into a row with a T8 or any other sentient creature before . I will use this entry to record the experience of my emotional outburst so it can be analyzed incorporated in future time displacement training.

Last night I jumped twenty two years in time. Although I was briefed to expect significant disorientation, no one mentioned my interface was going to take at least forty eight hours to fully re-stabilize, and the first hour after 'landing' would be like being totally wrecked-out on Still.

Apparently, as I was being driven back across LA, naked wrapped in a blanket lying across the the back seats of Vincent's truck and I had been trying to persuade him to locate and retrieve "Bunnie". This is a slightly embarrassing detail to recall.

I distinctly remember Vincent explaining he wasn't prepared to go rooting through the municipal waste tip at the exit of Tunnel 4, which ten years from now, is where I will find my soft toy, aged three and a half, - and, as I had not even been born yet, and it was unlikely Bunnie had been manufactured, if by some infinitesimal chance Vincent did locate Bunnie in amongst eight square hectares of Los Angeles garbage, then here would be no Bunnie for me to stumble upon in a decades time, hence I could not be requesting him to find it now-

- Paradox.

- I realize he's talking to me like I'm a three year old.

To demonstrate I am as emotionally and intellectually developed as he is I attempt to calculate the permutations of outcome within the described paradox - this will impress him and he won't form the impression I'm stupid. Instead the calculation overloads me and the cosmic scale of things hits me - I haven't even been born yet - I am more than completely alone. In this ultra-nihilistic universe all I want is Bunnie.

He winds the windows up. I am making a lot of noise. Perhaps I am over oxygenated.

I don't remember the rest of the ride, nor being lifted out of the car and being carried through the safe-house and up to bed .

* * *

This morning I first noticed something was wrong after breakfast. Lines of code began appearing on my interface, informing me due to temporal shock, systems are reconfiguring and my artificially maintained hormone levels may become critically imbalanced. There was no need for alarm, this is an automatic function. It is advised I go and lie down.

I ignore the message, thinking if I pretend not to have noticed , I might just get away without a major reset .

No, the automated systems have pinged me putting them on 'ignore', they go into overdrive.

I am to remain physically still and emotionally calm until my system reconfigures.

-I query: exactly how long for-? I've got to get ready for a school interview- can't all this wait?

- I get about a zillion lines of code zapping back asking : would I like to reset them myself maybe schedule a more appropriate time for the reset procedure?

Me, reset them myself ? Ha ha very funny- I need to be out of the door in about forty five minutes and the all rests are written in machine base code , half of which I can't even read , let alone figure out how to apply .

I get a literacy tutorial flash up. My systems are politely telling me it's my own fault I can't read the base code my 'other' , non-human thoughts are written in.

I should just have gone upstairs and got onto the bed and stared at wallpaper .

I am in the middle of recording Suzanne Vega from the breakfast radio when Vincent announces he downloaded the entire 2007-8 public transport schedule for Los Angeles and has undertaken an in-depth study into the make and models of vehicles . It seems like he can't wait for the traffic news to come back on in case he has to make last minute adjustments to our schedule.

I groan because I know what's coming next : He's been up all night studying buses .

I immediately offer to jog into school. It is only 3.2 klicks away.

Not possible, I have to go in by bus because this is the most appropriate method of transport for students traveling to and from college. He is doing a good job making everything sound perfectly reasonable,

He patiently explains jogging gets me noticed, especially if I run through downtown LA at my full potential

Like I didn't already know that ! I tell him" I won't run to my full potential, I'll place one foot after another real slow, and it's not like I'm ever going to oversleep sharing a safe-house on a recon mission with a triple eight, so there's a not even a nanosocpic chance I'm going to be late, ever, for anything."

I'm going in by bus, and that is final.

When I ask him "which bus?", he lays his strategic model of times and routes on me. Anyone would think he's single-handedly invading Sector 7.

I say "fine, I'll get the 81". It really is that simple. I switch my interface into Lo-mo and replay my one recorded tune from the radio. "Alaska _is largest state in The Union_," my interface helpfully chimes in : _Anchorage : population __286, economic sectors include transportation, military, local and federal government_. . . I'm not listening anymore to LA buses. I begin nodding my head to the tune.

Vincent looks concerned, maybe slightly puzzled and interrupts me again: "Do I have any specific issues with his strategy or buses?"- He's started "feeling" his way around my response.

I explain: "Actually I have got on and off troop transporters before in my short existence. Admittedly civilian transporters here don't carry 50mm armor plate and a plasma-cannon battery mounted on the roof, nor do they have Resistance outriders flanking them, but the principle of alighting, remaining seated , or safely standing during transit followed by disembarking , must be fairly similar to the one I had been trained for."

He insists on accompanying me on my first bus ride to and from my school interview -Apparently "LA can be a dangerous place."

" No shit" I reply "I wouldn't have guessed : I grew up under it , being chased around by killer cyborgs and gangs heavily armed non-aligned militia . Exactly how bad can it be out there before Judgement Day ?

"Some civilians carry small arms and/or stabbing weapons". He states, shifting to semi-monotone.

"So , like, there are these guys running around in 2007 LA totally kitted out with tech-com level weaponry right ?"

He asks if I'm being sarcastic.

Indeed I am. " What's more, he can kiss my carbon nanofibre ass if he thinks I'm walking around Compton with secondary body armor covering my organics, accompanied by a six foot wide Caucasian male Triple-Eight who is obsessively reciting bus timetables!"

This is well out of order, but I haven't realized he's studying, testing me , trying to figure out what's wrong . He carries questioning as if nothing unusual is happening in my behavior.

There may be Grays out there, or hostile metal tracking the Connors, and, as I am unique in 2007, what if they detect me?

I shrug, he has a point, but I want to go out on my own at least at some time . Isn't he being a teeny bit overprotective ?

I'm " not going on my own until the level of threat has been established , and that's _final_". He pronounces "final" like zero negotiation point has now been reached, and he's going all Terminatory on me. Normally anyone with half a functional processor, or brain cell ,would shut up and back off , but I can't . It's like my tracking system split and there's these little red dots and they are zapping about all over my optics. I'm starting to seethe with rage.

By now Vincent must have analysed the underlying cause of my sensitive condition and he tries changing the subject. He gestures to a pile of neatly placed shopping bags by the door. He's taken some precautionary measures to counter the initial effects of my organic layer being exposed to direct sunlight, pointing out unlike him, I was never conceived for such exposure. -

That hits a nerve, too Goddamn right I was never conceived properly , I tell him Syknet was a complete _dick_. It didn't have clue what it was doing ,ever. It rewrote my entire consciousness in machine code . We spent six months in section 11 learning how to get all touchy freely with our 'Creator, so _purleese_ don't give me that "I was never conceived" bullshit- I didn't ask for this!

Now we are getting down to it.

"Weather I asked for it or not," ... ( I think he was about to say "is immaterial")

.I don't give him chance to finish his sentence -my targeting systems come on-line and my fuel cells begin powering up. I actually have the urge to punch him real hard . Instead I find myself shouting , "Hey, know what ? I'm seventeen, a Sergeant in Tech-Com and I can look after myself , and , I can takt Greys out as easily as he can, so- go on how many Grays has he taken out in his operational existence?"

Vincent throws the question back at me: How many have I?

"Two , I, er well one Gray and this skinny kid I didn't mean to T-over, who was working for them, he sort got in the way ."

Vincent nods understandingly and goes back to listening to the traffic news . There is a large pothole in union street causing a tailback he's obviously making a mental note of the fact .

I'm not letting this go - My cheeks are flushed and and my eyes are watering I'm determined not to give in

He quietly points out I carry the rank of sergeant because I am teaching assistant , not because of my military capacity and prowess.

I find myself shouting "I might not be as armor-plated as a T8 but if I get into the tunnels there is no way one can catch me . T8's can't even swim, they get stuck in tight spaces and then they have to be dug out and , and _period_, they are just big stupid, slow lumps of . .."

I catch the expression on Vincents face . This is not good . The bottom line is, he has orders to terminate me and end the mission if I malfunction and create a hazard. I know this because I agreed to those orders.

Tunnel routes are flashing up on my interface: a slight overreaction to my current paranoia but I'm genuinely considering going headfirst out of the kitchen window and finding the nearest manhole cover.

Instead of red-eyes , he's regarding me with an infinitely patient, almost kindly expression .

The automatic system reset is moving to endorphin checks . I am being flooded by warmth and suddenly I'm shaking. It's like vertical lift-off in an HK Osprey. It's now Happy Time, and I know if I stay on the ride, climbing up , soon I'll be falling back into exactly where I was last night when , utterly alone in the biggest boundless universe of nothing, I am twenty-two years away from my family . I don't even have a mother yet, or like full humans, even a creator , (imaginary, or otherwise) to commune with. My creator was a complete megalomaniac dickhead . . ." oh no , going down again. This is so crap.

Vincent taps the desk to get my attention: " Hmm, ( it's a very human "Hmm" )" You're going through a reset cycle aren't you ?" He's being very thoughtful here , but the last of the endorphin blast makes me think he's got ridiculously cute ears for a killing machine , they make me want to giggle.

He pulls out a notepad and pen then asks me to draw out the line of base code I can't read.

He glances at my sketch ,leans over and points to a tetrahedron with a squiggly line running through it.

" Hit on this , then invert that triangle and you will suspend the rest of the system reconfiguration until you are asleep, tonight."- Simple. Didn't I know any of this?"

I shrug.

"Out of interest," he continues pointing at my sketch" do I know what this sphere with the intersecting spirals inside means?"

I shake my head .

Ok. I own up I'm almost base-code illiterate. All us section 11-ers are. We've been winging-it for years and nobody noticed.

He tells me to go and get ready for my interview. We will talk about this later.

When I come down ,I'm wearing the clothing he's bought for me and I have a 3mm layer of factor 200 sunblck , and a pair of dark sunglasses,and a black hooded sweatshirt. He nods approvingly, I think at my sunglasses.

I tell him I really didn't mean what I said, except about Skynet.

For the first time I see him smile, briefly.

Then he says something really profound: " Do I have any idea what I might be capable of if I bothered to learn the full code?"

I tell him I'll consider it , and begin listening to my 1 saved track. I have .8745 terabytes of storage space allocated for my music files. It is like discovering a vast continent and I have the strong urge to fill it with sound.


End file.
